eventually have to tell them what happened, though she won’t tell them why. Because, apart from anything else, they’ll never believe her.
—
That afternoon Greer sits on the floor of her wardrobe, surrounded by discarded dresses. Carmen stands in front of the mirror, trying on a blue silk trouser suit while Peggy perches on the bed in a cream linen shirt and skirt emblazoned with bright purple orchids.
“This is so fun,” Peggy giggles. “I’ve never felt so fancy, like I should be out courting with a man on each arm.”
“Try this.” Greer holds out a dark red poodle skirt to Carmen. “Tight tops set off by big belts and flouncy skirts, that’s your thing. Perfect for your figure.”
Carmen discards her trousers, slips on the skirt and smiles. “Perfecto.”
“So, my dear.” Peggy turns to Greer. “Apart from playing dress-up, have you given any thought to what you want to do with your life?”
Greer gives a nonchalant shrug, not in the mood to delve into her angst about acting and her seemingly bleak future in general. “I’ve an interview with Carmen’s boss on Saturday.”
“Well.” Peggy smoothes her skirt. “That might do for now, but I think, since you’re here, the house probably has bigger plans for you than that.”
“Oh?” Greer says. “And will you tell me what they are?”
“No, my dear.” Peggy smiles. “I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that.”
—
Alba shuffles through the east wing of Ashby Hall, shivering. She can’t sleep and she’s starving—not that she wants to eat, her stomach is too full of sorrow. She refused dinner with Charlotte and Charles, pleading a migraine, knowing they wouldn’t settle for the simple reason of grief. For an Ashby mustn’t be buckled or broken by emotion, an Ashby must be strong. She imagines them downstairs, plowing through Cook’s four courses, drinking until they can’t feel anything anymore.
As Alba turns a corner along the corridor the clouds part and her way is lit by moonlight. She sees the door, exactly as she remembers it, painted blue: the shade of a muted spring sky, her mother’s favorite color. It stands out against all the ancient oak that lines the walls and shapes the ceilings, the only painted door in the whole of Ashby Hall, a gift to Alba’s mother from a grateful husband on the birth of their first child: Charles Ashby IV.
Alba places her palm on the wood, her pale fingers made marble by the moonlight, and stares at the door as though trying to see through it. She wonders if it’s been opened since her mother’s death and if, indeed, this was where she died. The siblings haven’t explained the circumstances yet, and she hasn’t asked, hardly sure whether or not she really wants to know.
A cloud drifts across the moon. Alba’s hand disappears and the corridor is dark again. In the blackness she feels herself starting to fray at the edges, her molecules drifting off, evaporating, dissolving . . . She could be eight years old again, standing outside her mother’s bedroom door, pleading with her to stop crying and come out and play. Then Alba hears that song again, the one she heard the first night at Hope Street. Alba presses her ear to the door, but then the tune changes to another she knows, one about all the colors of the rainbow. Another memory rises up. She’s lying on the grass in a field, under an oak. Her mother lies next to her, singing that song. Alba can hear her own voice, young and bright. “Look.” Her tiny hand points up at the tree. “It’s breathing, Mummy, bright yellow like buttercups.”
“The color of inspiration,” her mother says, “and youth.”
“Yes,” Alba laughs. “Yes!”
“What other colors can you see, my darling?”
Alba sits up, glancing around the field. “That bird is singing dark green,” she says. “The tiny one in black, he’s complaining.”
“Maybe someone stole his worm.”
“I can’t understand what he’s singing, Mummy.” Alba frowns. “That’s what Dr. Doolittle does.”
“Quite right,” her mother smiles, “so what else do you see?”
But just as Alba is about to answer, the memory lets go and leaves Alba standing alone in the silence. A slip of light now shines from underneath the door and slowly she pushes it open. The room is exactly as she remembers: sparse and bare, with sky blue walls, wooden bed, wardrobe and rocking chair by the single long window. On the chair, Alba thinks she can see her mother, rocking back and forth, twisting her hands in her lap, muttering